


Mistakes of the Mind

by moldydumpling



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 21:50:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4409147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moldydumpling/pseuds/moldydumpling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stan couldn't shake off the creeping sensation of being watched."</p><p>After Stanford gets sucked into the portal, Bill turns his interests towards the remaining Pines twin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My need for stanbill is still strong and kicking. I'm not completely sure about the direction I'm going with this fic, but I'm pretty sure the rating will go up at some point.

The edges of his vision were blurred while he wandered through the house, clutching his brother’s journal and glasses in his arms in an attempt to ground himself. All there was left was a ringing sound in his ears and Stan felt numb. After what felt like hours searching for the second journal, he eventually came across what could only be Stanford’s bedroom. He opened the door in apprehension. A lump formed in his throat and he forced himself to swallow it down.

There were traces of Stanford all over the place. It was tidier than the rest of the house and Stan briefly wondered whether he had spend more nights working on his research than sleeping in his own bed. 

He felt like he was intruding, like he was seeing something personal that he wasn’t allowed to see. Stanford’s room was a freedom that was taken from him long ago, the moment when the trust between them had shattered for good.

Once, their bedroom used to be their own shared, enclosed space, where they would whisper at each other in the dark and tell stories of make-believe under their blankets, until they grew older and they each got their separate rooms. Their youth was a lifetime ago. It felt intimate to stand in his brother’s bedroom once more, but after years apart from each other Stan felt further away from him than ever. 

The numbness was wearing down and he acutely became aware of the burning pain on his shoulder. His legs buckled and Stan sat down on the couch in weariness, unable to let himself lie on the bed he didn’t deserve. 

The room was silent. The batteries in the clock were long empty. He brought his hand up and stared at his brother’s glasses. The light from outside was glinting off the frames and Stan let out a sigh. He felt completely helpless. 

~

Sleep never came easily the following days. During the day, Stan would be too occupied with trying to make sense of his brother’s research and fix the portal. Thoughts he deemed unnecessary were reduced into background noise. However, when night came, and the only sound he could hear was his own breathing, they would slowly trickle into the forefront of his mind, bleeding into Stan’s thoughts, until his head was a constant loop of what-ifs and if-only's. In the end it didn’t matter; what was done is done, but no matter how much he tried to tell himself this, he still ended up backtracking, thinking about his own mistakes and how much he had failed as a brother.

When his eyes would finally give up on him, and his mind would blank out, he’d dream about his brother. Even in his dreams he would be restless. Sometimes they were kids, sometimes they were adults, sometimes his parents would be there and their eyes would stare at him accusingly. His dreams were a blur of faces and shapes. Stanford would either look at him blankly, like he was a ghost, or look at him with a sneer, telling him that he amounted to nothing, that he was a failure, that he had killed him. No matter how much Stan would deny it and call out for him he’d always say the same. Everything was his fault and only he was to blame.

~

Last night’s dream had been different and more vivid than usual. He remembered standing at the coast of Glass Shard Beach, the light of the afternoon sun glittering over the sea. He and his brother pushed at their sailboat, until they were standing knee-deep in the water, and they jumped up onto the boat, leaving their hometown behind, the promise of treasure beyond the stretch of sea. The salty waves sprayed onto their face and they laughed. 

Then, the sky darkened and it began to storm. The sea turned into a murky grey and lightning flashed above them. Their boat dangerously swayed and the pole swung loose into Stanford’s direction. Stanley reached out and yelled for him to watch out, but it was too late and with a surprised shout Stanford was knocked back into the ocean, sinking down, until he was completely out of his reach and only Stan was left behind.

Stan had awoken with a jolt, his arm still outstretched in front of him. He fell back down the couch. Stan clenched his fist and covered his eyes with his arm, his chest rising heavily up and down.

He’d spend the rest of the night with his eyes wide open, until the first rays of sunlight peaked over the treetops, and left the room.

~

The next day was spent cleaning up the house. It was a long way until it was fully dust-free, and there were a few loose threads that Stan had to tie up before he could open the shack to the rest of public other than the town, but after days of failures and errors Stan was looking optimistic. Finally, he had a way of making a sustainable living, one that he was best in and required little effort.

(In the back of his mind a voice sounding like suspiciously like his brother bitterly told him that the only reason he got a roof under his head and a job was because he had pushed Stanford into the portal. Stan shoved the voice away. He already had enough of his conscience to deal with.)

The windows were now bare and light was flooding through the shack. Ever since he unboarded the windows, however, Stan couldn't shake off the creeping sensation of being watched.

Sometimes, when he would walk past a room or climb down the stairs, the hairs on the back of his neck would rise for seemingly no reason and his heart would speed up a little bit faster, like his body was responding for fight-or-flight. When he turned around there was no-one there, but the feeling never disappeared. His whole body felt on edge.

When everything became too much, and the walls felt like they were closing down on him, he escaped the house and stood at the front porch, inhaling the smell of pines in the air. Even when he left the shack, he still felt like he was being followed. A thought that his brother’s ghost had come to haunt him briefly crossed his mind, but he shrugged it off. 

Stanford isn’t dead, he firmly told himself. He didn’t know whether he truly believed this or whether it was simply his desperation speaking.

~

He was dreaming about their sailboat again, but this time Stanford was no longer there. The sea stretched out all around him over the horizon. There were no fishes, no seagulls, and Stan felt all alone. 

“Looks like you need some company.”

Stan whipped his head around and took a step backwards in surprise. The boat swayed and Stan tripped over his feet. He fell down and landed on his butt. 

The voice burst out into laughter. Stan looked up and his eyebrows shot up.

“Oh man, that was pure comedy right there! Keep that up and you might even be more entertaining than Six fingers.” The triangle spoke (a floating triangle wearing a bowtie and top hat, Stan thought to himself in dazed wonder.) It looked at him amusingly.

“I know, I know, my form is a magnificent sight to behold. It’s absolutely awe-inspiring, isn’t it?”

Stan’s mouth moved on its own accord. “I dunno, it’s passable at best.”

It chuckled and suddenly floated in front of his face, and Stan reared his head back in surprise. He could count the number of veins on its sclera up-close. 

It hummed. “Cute. I’d say your skills of entertainment are passable at best, too.”

Stan felt irritation rising up his chest. “You’d have to pay for a full show. Comedy ain’t come for free,” Stan retorted back in response. 

It crinkled its eye like it was grinning. “Not free, hm? So why don’t we make a deal, then?” It said gleefully, saying the word ‘deal’ like it was a price.

Before Stan could respond he awoke with a thud on the floor. He groaned in pain. 

He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling for a second. He pushed himself onto his feet and gathered his covers from the ground. 

Stan rubbed his eyes. Whatever that dream was, he needed a cup of coffee.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He could tell himself that it would have been easier if Ford had never thrown the journal at his feet, that Stan had no choice, that Ford had begged for his help, but Stan knew he would be lying to himself. He knew he could have always decided to turn his back on his twin, but that he would never allow himself to do it."

First thing Stan did when he had earned enough money was to buy a new bed. After the first night alone in the shack he never slept in his brother’s room again and had moved to the couch in the living room (or at least what he thought was the living room) instead. He cleared out one of Ford's storage rooms and made his home there. 

After that dream he had flipped through the journal to find a possible explanation, but found nothing. Still, he wasn’t reassured, and it didn’t help he noticed how there were imageries of the same one-eyed triangle strewn all over the house. Not for the first time Stan started wondering about what his brother had been up to all these years. If he didn’t knew any better he’d have thought Ford had joined a cult.

Stan gnawed at his lip as he stared at his brother’s handwriting. His penmanship was immaculate as always and his illustrations were incredible. He always had an eye for details. In his mind he could see his brother drawing away in his journal, like he used to do when they were teenagers, when Ford started daydreaming and sketching around the margin of his homework.

When he reached the last page he dragged his hands over his face. He knew the answers may lie in the other journals, and he cursed at Ford for making this harder than it should. When he closed his eyes he could hear Ford screaming for his help as he was sucked into the portal. His burn mark twinged at the memory and he brought his hand to his shoulder. 

He could tell himself that it would have been easier if Ford had never thrown the journal at his feet, that Stan had no choice, that Ford had begged for his help, but Stan knew he would be lying to himself. He knew he could have always decided to turn his back on his twin, but that he would never allow himself to do it. Whether it was out of guilt, his brotherly love, or simply because he was more reliant on Ford's existence than he cared to admit, Stan would do anything to bring him back, even if it meant giving up the remainder of his life. 

And so he decided to trust his brother’s research, although he admitted he had been skeptical, until the day he went out to explore the forest and had come across one of the creatures described in the journal, more teeth and spines than he was comfortable with (Stanley Pines did not run for his life). He compartmentalized the weirdness of the town and the weirdness of his dream in the same section of his mind, and thus Stan knew the two of them were somehow connected, but he choose to not dwell on it for too long. Stan had bigger things to worry about after all.

 

 

\---

 

 

“And remember: we put the fun in no refunds!”

He waved at the tourists leaving the house. Stan stuck his hand in his pocket and brought out the new stack of cash. He hummed as he counted them one by one and dropped himself on the couch. He yawned and closed his eyes. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically. A new string of townsfolk had come by to see the "murder hut" for themselves and he had forced himself to entertain them throughout the day. He was still baffled at how willingly they had given up their money, cooing at whatever Stan had hastily put together from his brother’s belongings. Stan supposed he should be feeling guilty about this, but it was not like Ford was here to tell him what he should and shouldn’t do.

He sagged into the couch and smiled as he smelled the sea, the familiar rocking of the ocean under his feet. He let himself be pulled in by the sound of waves and felt a light breeze brushing his face. When he opened his eye he we greeted by the sight of single slitted pupil and he jumped in his seat. The same triangle was floating in front of him again, looking smug at his shock. Stan scowled.

“Who do you think you are?” Stan said with clipped words. The triangle threw its hands up in mock surprise.

“Oh! Didn’t I introduce myself last time?” It cackled and then tipped its hat. “The name’s Bill Cipher. I was a, ah, colleague of your brother, you could say.”

Stan arched his eyebrow. “A colleague?” He repeated skeptically. “A talking triangle is not exactly what I would have pegged as someone’s colleague.”

The triangle, Bill, he mentally corrected himself, grinned (Stan wondered how it was possible for a two-dimensional shape with no mouth to grin) “And how would you have pegged someone as a colleague?”

“I dunno, less float-y, more flesh.”

“Like this?” The voice came from behind him and he whirled around. Suddenly he was staring right at Stanford's face and Stanley froze. For a split second he was down in the basement again, his brother looking at him with a haunted expression on his face. Stanley stumbled backwards, but he forced himself to think rationally. The eyes boring into his own were not the warm brown of his brother, but instead they were yellow and slitted like a demon.

Stan shook his head violently and then shoved him away. Bill was thrown slightly back at the force, but then floated mid-air and returned to his original form, bellowing with laughter. Stan’s eyes were blazing with anger.

“Cut the chase already!” He shouted. “What do you want?”

Bill glided lazily down his eye-level before he spoke up. 

“A trophy.” he drawled, “Lots of big fishes swimming in this ocean. There might be one to catch my eye.” Stan grew tired at his roundabout answer, but he was first and foremost a conman for a reason, so he played along.

“Don’t you think you would need a fishing rod? Some bait?” Bill’s non-existent grin grew possibly bigger at his answer.

“I don’t need a fishing rod to reel in my catch.” Before Stan could make sense of his answer and reply, Bill spoke again.

“Looks like you’ve reeled in quite a catch, though,” he said, floating around him. Stan followed the line of his sight and looked down at his hand clenched around his freshly earned bills.

He shoved it into his pocket and looked away. “Well yeah, Business and all that.”

Bill hummed. “Tell me, Stan. How does it feel to have earned that money off your brother?”

Stan narrowed his eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Bill twirled his cane, looking bored. “I mean, the only reason you even have a job is because of your brother. He disappears, leaving you his house and items. The only reason people are even interested in coming is because of him.”

Stan felt like he was punched in the gut.

“That’s, that’s not true!” He bit out defensively.

“Isn’t it? Isn’t that why you pushed him? Jealous of his house, all the luxuries, wanting it all for yourself, so you could finally have something more?”

“No, that’s not- I-”

Bill was looming over him, his size suddenly ten times bigger, and Stan scrambled back, his heart beating in his throat. “You think you finally did something worthwhile in your life, but make no mistake; all you ever do is lie, and cheat, and ride on your brother’s coattails.”

Bill’s words rang in his mind, tuning out all other thoughts. Once again he was standing on the front porch of his home, the shape of Filbrick Pines looming over him, illuminated by the light of the hallway, and he could hear his father saying the same words over and over. They multiplied, surrounding him, taunting him.

“Face it, you’re just a big failure,” they said and Stan clapped his hands over his ears.

Failure, failure, failure, failure, failure, failure--

“Shut up, shut up!”

With the strength of his will he wished them away and all at once disappeared, crackling with laughter in Bill’s voice.

“Until next time, Pines!”

Stan gasped as his eyes flew open. Light flooded his vision and he blearily narrowed his eyes. Pain shot through his neck as he stood upright, sore from using his own shoulder as a rest. Distantly he could hear his father’s voice shout the same words again and he rubbed his face. Through the window he could see the sun making its way down the treetops, reminding him it was well past noon.

He made his way down the basement, tapping the code in what was now muscle memory, forcing himself to stop thinking about Bill’s words, but he couldn’t help thinking about the disappointed face of his mother in his dreams, the accusing eyes of his father, and one of the last words Stanford had said to him: how hiding the journal would have been the first worthwhile thing he’d have done in his life, implying that before his life had been worthless.

Stan could not stop thinking about those cold nights he had spent alone in his car, beating himself over how much of a failure he was, and when he was down on his knees, his breath heavy and brow sweaty, pulling the lever without result again, he could not stop thinking about how he truly was a failure after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its been 2 months im so sorry for the wait. big thanks to ana for helping me out. i wouldnt have been able to muster the motivation to finish this if it hadn't been for them


End file.
